


Thy Two Eyes, like stars; or, the Last Survivor of Berk

by wyrm_n_sigun



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Vengeful Spirits, dead!Hiccup AU, dead!everyone AU, httyd 2, httyd 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrm_n_sigun/pseuds/wyrm_n_sigun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU diversion: Stoick could not save Hiccup. Hiccup was not there to get Toothless back, and Berk was destroyed. </p>
<p>Toothless, owned now by Drago, grapples with guilt. And with something else. </p>
<p>Something that used to be human, but isn't, anymore. Something dead. And angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Drago Bludvist's prize was not yet broken in. He did not need it constantly; he was feared across the Archipelago and far beyond the North Sea, after all, even without a Night Fury steed. His pet-alpha could not do to be constantly distracted by maintaining control over the dragon, not with so much other work to be done. So, when he did not need his prize -- the best spoil of war he'd ever gotten -- it was confined to a prison in the deepest decks of a ship in his fleet.

 

 

 

 

It would howl horribly, crying to Hel and back with its echoing, and he waited. He left it in custody as he went about his business, and upon his return his men would report: another attempt to blast the cell walls and another bout of depression and self-starvation, at which point he would turn the Alpha on the Fury to remind it who was boss here. The cycle would begin again in time. But each time, the escape attempts became feebler and the hunger strike lasted longer, and the dragon was close to its breaking point. 

 

 

 

 

It wouldn't be long, now. Best of all, the Fury knew it was losing.  

 

He was still basking in the old triumph surrounding its capture -- he especially enjoyed the runt ragdoll's hollowed-out torso, and the screaming of course, always the screaming -- and so, foolishly, Drago Bludvist made a fatal mistake.

 

He took his time before coming back to his fleet.

 

He took his time in asserting dominance on the Night Fury again.

 

And that, as he discovered, gave  _something else_ an opportunity. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once, when he woke up from another bout of possession, it was six hours of staring into darkness before he remembered what he was called. 

 

Not  _Night Fury,_ as his ma-- the Bludvist human with the Alpha called him. No, his name was  _Toothless._  It had taken him a whole season to learn enough Norse to grasp its meaning, and by that point, he couldn't hope to be angry at the choice. His Hiccup had done far worse things. 

 

His Hiccup had called him  _Toothless,_ yes, and that was his name. No-one called him Toothless anymore, of course, but it didn't change the fact that it was his name, and he  _wasn't_ going to forget it. He wished he could make those line-pictures that humans did -- he would have scratched his name into the floor, every surface reachable, of his cell, just to make sure. If he could have, then he'd know he'd be safe -- each time he would wake, Hiccup's voice saying his name, an army of remembered moments calling out from the scratches, would blanket him, and keep him  _Toothless_ a little longer.

 

He was too weak to sigh or sob, but his head shifted slightly on his chained paws. He whimpered as he chased after the sound of Hiccup's warble, his nasal Norse that wasn't always intelligible -- speaking too fast or too complicatedly for Toothless to follow perfectly -- but was always welcoming, and tried to summon its exact pitch in his mind. He had only a vague idea left now; the memory was slipping from him. He heard the guards far above him mention once that it had been three years. Three years at least, since Hiccup had been silenced. 

 

Toothless didn't know what Hiccup's exact age had been -- humans measured time in such baffling ways -- but he knew that they had been in the same phase of life, and that adulthood had started to creep into Hiccup. His odours had changed, hormones no longer being quite as ridiculous as in their years together previously. His relationship with that-Astrid-he-liked, his authority, his body, all matured -- perhaps he would have been chief, or a father, by this point. Toothless thought of that-Astrid-he-liked again, but hadn't the strength left to be distraught, not anymore. He assumed Stormfly was probably dead by now, so it didn't matter anyway. None of it mattered. 

 

But he was a  _Night Fury,_ unrivaled among dragons, and his pride kept him alive and kept him defiant, even without a reason for fighting. 

 

He cursed himself for yet another star-numbered time, and ignored the empty clawing in his stomach. It had been three years at least, and he had an idea that three years was a long time. (Or at least to Hiccup, but then again he'd been so young.) If he had given up and starved sooner, then perhaps he wouldn't have so many deaths to his name. His memory of the times he was needed in Bludvist's battles was foggy, but he knew he'd done many awful deeds. Destruction that would have horrified his Hiccup no end. 

 

He knew Vikings believed in a life after death. Dragons held no notions as absurd as that: they knew full well that, after death, one becomes reconstituted into the world, passing along one's life-energy. But, for a moment, Toothless wished that perhaps the Vikings were right; he hoped that that maybe something left of Hiccup floated somewhere still in another world, and he hoped that maybe he could find it, if he could only get there.

 

He knew it was pointless wishing, though, and gave up on it. Besides, even if  _something_ of the human he'd grown to adore survived out there, what would that  _something_ of Hiccup think of him now? 

 

A sky full of apologies would never be enough. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toothless slept in fearful fits, waves of red images kaleidoscopic and horrific enveloping him. He dreamed,  _remembered_ , sounds the clearest. He thought he could still recognise some of the voices. It didn't matter -- they were all simply screaming. It didn't matter if he could recognise them -- they were all dead. He saw the buildings burn, the ones he remembered Hiccup putting so much care into redesigning for the dragons that were murdering them, and he saw the bodies in and under and impaled on the ice -- and while he of three years ago hadn't cared in the slightest, the Toothless lying now in the darkest corner of nightmares wailed and cried at the images.

 

The memories were clouded, and flickered red and dull and hardly his. Yet they were seared into him. 

 

The worst one of all was not of the Massacre at Berk at all, but of something before that. A red shape with blurred edges reached out a hand to him and was panicking. The shape was being stared down by a dragon, and then -- screaming, and Hiccup's pleas stopped, and something Toothless would never cease seeing in every dark corner happened. He saw clearly Hiccup's expression, the awareness in him, as it vanished into the land of nothing. He saw clearly Hiccup's face as blue fire punched into and through him -- humans were so fragile, his Hiccup was so delicate! -- and blood and snow went everywhere as he flew back and hit the ice with a crack that must have shattered his spine. He lay on his face then, his lower body twisted around horribly. 

 

The Alpha had let Toothless go then, long enough that clear memories of that-Stoick-Hiccup's-father cradling something dead formed in him, and a clear memory of nudging a small hand already ice-cold and wilting. Horror struck him. He was beaten away from the dead thing that slumped against that-Stoick's chest and looked ahead empty, heedless of the cavern made in its midsection. Toothless cried and called for Hiccup, but Hiccup was gone already. And then so was Toothless. 

 

And then they were all dead, and then Hiccup was dead again, and his village, his family -- Toothless's home, Toothless's village too -- all dead, and Hiccup was dead, and Hiccup was calling out in terror and turmoil for  _Toothless, Toothless,_ asking and begging for  _Toothless_ to come back to him, to stop, and to recognise him. And then Hiccup was doing it again, and they were all dead, and then the other villages were all dead too, and then Hiccup was screaming, and the ships were burning, and the other chiefs were bowing, and Hiccup was dead again, seeing nothing, forever silent, and no-one had called him  _Toothless_ since. 

 

A cacophony red and terrible and traumatizing was in him and consuming and this was what happened every night, and this was why Toothless avoided sleep and avoided wakefulness and wanted death, because this was all there was left. All that was left of his beloved human resided here, in these horrific nightmares. And that was why he ultimately suffered through them. 

 

_Toothless, stop! Toothless, snap out of it!"_

 

He saw Hiccup plead again, and his face faded away. 

 

But then his face returned, for a blink. 

 

" _Toothless!_ "

 

And it was gone.

 

" _Toothless, snap out of it!"_

_"Toothless! Bud!"_

 

 There it was again. He hadn't remembered it like this. 

The sound was different, too. But before he could grasp the new memory -- the new precious scrap of something -- the face was gone again and all he had was a figure and an omnipotent voice telling him to destroy it.

 

But he fought. It was a memory, it didn't make sense -- he couldn't change what had happened, back then. But he fought anyway, willing the events to happen differently. Even if it was only fantasy, and he losing his sanity.

 

Hiccup's face had returned, and it was new somehow -- the colour was not what he remembered, the red glaze did not reach his features -- and it smiled. Impossibly. 

 

In the dream, Toothless wailed. In the part of his mind that knew he was merely imagining, Toothless clutched the image to him. The image of Hiccup smiling. 

 

_"Toothless, hey!"_

 

The sound of Hiccup saying his name, without fear this time -- not like those last seconds that had replayed endlessly -- but with warmth. He clutched that, too, rejoicing that he could still somehow remember the exact pitch of his voice again, and savoured it. 

 

_"Toothless, hey, bud! I missed you!"_

 

A new uncertainty rippled through. Hiccup had definitely not said  _that_  before Toothless had killed him. 

 

" _Toothless! It's me, it's Hiccup! I'm here!"_

He noticed for the first time that the image of Hiccup's face -- smiling, showing blue and pale in a sea of red and smudges -- had not opened its mouth once to speak, despite his voice ringing so audibly.

 

He might have been reeling. But Toothless soon realised that he was starving, and hallucinating, and that this was a particularly nice delusion he was having. 

 

_"No, Toothless! No, you're not hallucinating! And don't starve yourself!"_

... What?

 

_"Toothless! Bud! You need to eat; you need to live! Please!"_

What was happening? This delusion was becoming oddly frightening. 

 

_"Toothless! It wasn't your fault; I forgive you, bud. But the others -- Berk --"_

And, suddenly, for the first time in perhaps the whole world's history, a Night Fury felt true and complete and abject terror. The face's expression was shifting, Hiccup's brow growing shadowed and angry. Something was wrong in his dark dulled eyes, and in his closed mouth, that could not open. 

 

_"Toothless... we can't sleep."_

Toothless woke from his dark-hour dream-horror and screamed. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Toothless stared at the basket. It was full of fish, he knew, and he'd watched as they'd lowered it in slowly and unhooked it immediately lest he use the rope to escape. The smell was affecting him greatly: his whole body shuddered every time his stomach screeched hatchling-high to be fed. But he didn't touch it. He hadn't touched the baskets for seventeen days. 

 

 

 

He was pushing it. Usually, by this point, he would be forced to eat -- not bodily, but by the Alpha taking his mind from him again, leaving him in a state in which he would live without thoughts at all until such time as he was released. Then the memories would come, and he would be in the cell again, grappling with countless days' worth of hanging on Bludvist's heel like a dog, obeying his every order blindly, doing all his dirty deeds, and feeling and thinking nothing throughout all of it, outside of what the Alpha put into his mind for him. The humiliation was crippling, and the pain worse so, but there was also the relief; he wished, sometimes, that -- if he were unable to die -- the Alpha might gain strength enough to erase him permanently, and Toothless would never have to think or feel anything of his situation and his dead loved one again, and he would never have to wake up and remember what Bludvist had made him do. It would be just like death. 

 

Of course, the knowledge that if he didn't remember Hiccup and Berk, no-one else would, made him thankful he had these pockets in which he was himself -- even if being himself was the cruelest punishment imaginable. 

 

He longed to die every time he was himself, and didn't touch the food they gave him, and this time the Alpha had not yet come back to make him forget why he resisted. 

 

He would have been hopeful at this; this was the longest hunger strike he'd managed. But he couldn't rejoice at finally, possibly, getting his peace. A shadow, a dream -- a something, had come to him, and begged him in Hiccup's voice to eat. To live. For him. 

 

He knew not what to make of it.

 

Toothless assumed at first that it was a hallucination. He was weak enough for one, and it was just the sort of hallucination he would come up with, in his current state. But the words spoken were not anything he could dream; they were too horrible. The voice was unmistakable. No-one living had a voice like that. 

 

It wasn't Hiccup. It couldn't be. He was gone. 

 

It sounded just like him. The parts of him that Toothless had forgotten were all there; this was not a creation purely from his delusions, his limited imagination. 

 

It acted oddly. It greeted him like Hiccup, but it was something else. Even if it was partly Hiccup at some point long ago, it wasn't anymore.

 

But why would it tell him to eat if it wasn't Hiccup? Why would it care? 

 

It didn't have to be the real Hiccup to recognise Toothless as a valuable ally, of course. He began to feel ill; he imagined some sort of trickster spirit, finding a shard of Hiccup blown somewhere on the wind --  a lone speck that didn't make it safely back into the cycle of the world -- and taking it, twisting it, wearing that bit of his beloved human like a bloody mask. 

 

It occurred to Toothless then that, if that really were true, he then had an obligation to protect what was left of Hiccup from such a spirit. See that bit of his friend laid to rest, returned to the world: it was the least he owed him.

 

He knew not how he knew, but he knew the visitor to his dreams would come back. 

 

His stomach burbled weakly in its emptiness, and his body was heavy. He heard, clearer than any other of the grey memories scraped up over three years to hold to his heart, his Hiccup telling him to eat. 

 

He didn't realise he had gone for the fish until the chain holding him to the ground clanged to a stop. He could just barely reach the basket with his snout, and he upended it. 

 

_"Toothless! Bud! You need to eat; you need to live! Please!"_   

 

He broke his fast and pretended it didn't shame him to fold so. But he had more dignity now than if he waited and the Alpha commanded him to strengthen himself for one of Bludvist's campaigns. 

 

_"You need to live!"_

 

He didn't believe it. But hearing it from Hiccup...

 

No, Hiccup was gone. There was no life after death for his soul. 

 

Toothless ate and ate and felt quite ill after starving for so long, and half the food came out again. 

 

He heard, vague and faint, far above, the guards noticing and relaxing upon seeing him eat. They were cowards, afraid of Bludvist's wrath. If Toothless was going to live, he would kill them first. 

 

No, he was not going to live. He didn't deserve it. 

 

But something with Hiccup's voice told him to live. And forgave him. 

 

It was not much in the way of hope, but it was a flicker. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another four sleeps, and the vision/voice hadn't returned. Toothless had accepted it being a hallucination. He was too tired, still, and too weak to be frustrated about his broken fast. He lay in a low doze, fearful of deeper sleep and the red memories that lived in it.

 

Eventually, he had no choice. He succumbed. The nightmares were back. They were his sentence; the price he paid for Hiccup's death, and for the countless others after him.

 

" _It wasn't your fault; I forgive you, bud."_

 

Toothless moaned, wriggled pathetic in his sleep. In his dreams, he sought about for the voice, but then remembered it was mere delusion. 

 

_"Toothless!"_

 

Hiccup's face blurred away, as if already dead, in a fog of red. He was floundering in new terror, remembering for the first just what a  _dragon_ was. Hiccup: dead because he loved and trusted, too well and too much. 

 

_"Toothless, stop it!"_

 

Toothless was crying again. One would think he'd run out of sobs already. If dragons could shed tears, he would have drowned in his by now. 

 

_"Toothless, no! Don't do this, Toothless!"_

 

His Hiccup, for whom Toothless would have gladly have ripped himself apart, to spare him his fate... 

 

_"Toothless, stop it!"_ The face became more distinct, adopting a cold colour, of ice and slumber.  _"Bud, hey! They made you do it; it's not your fault, it's not your fault."_

 

It was then that Toothless realised, and remembered, and stared, seeing a face that looked very much still dead; it was no comfort at all. But it smiled, and it was a Hiccup smile. It would have been a better one, though, if the face could open its mouth.

 

_"Hey there, bud. It's been so long! And you ate, too! That's wonderful!"_

 

Every emotion possible swirled up, and none was the right one. Toothless would fain have explained how he was starving for Hiccup, and how he was going to live for Hiccup, and how he didn't believe this dream-visitor was Hiccup at all; it was all too much. He had no response.

 

_"Bud, you've got to listen to me: please, please, keep your strength up. Please, don't... don't let yourse..."_ The face and voice lapsed again sudden into redness, replaced for a screeching moment by the whistle of blue-fire charge and his adored human's fear-stink and the fact that Toothless had  _enjoyed both._

 

Toothless, in his dream and in his body lying awkwardly on the cell floor, roared. The night-visitor must not leave! He hung onto the apparition, forcing away the memory of Hiccup's sudden-still face as the fire snuffed him out. 

 

_"...ed to stay strong, Toothless, for us. For me. Please, bud, you must not let him win."_

 

Toothless would have tried to ask "who", but he didn't need to.

 

_"We're still here; we can't rest, we can't move on. I can't, not while they are still unburied. You must defeat him."_

 

Toothless shook his head. There was nothing he could do.

 

_"Do not let Berk go unavenged, Toothless."_ The night-visitor's face had become dark again, angry,  _enraged._ Toothless had never seen his Hiccup so, and he shrank away.  _"I do not blame you for killing us. But if you lie down to die and let us roam so... that, then, really will be your fault."_ The eyes of the face were dark, dark as the night sky almost, and Toothless swore he could see stars peeking through the cosmos back at him. He shuddered and wailed. 

 

In his distress, his focus on keeping this visitor and vision with him faltered, and suddenly there was Hiccup again, flying backwards, surprise only barely present still on his features, blood everywhere, painting the snow brilliantly --- 

 

_"Toothless! I'm -- I'm sorry..."_

 

For a moment, Toothless thought almost the dead body had sat up, managing somehow to twist its splintered spine the right way again. But, no, it was the blue, dead-as-the-moon spirit again. Its angry look had vanished, and its mouth seemed to move, forgetting almost that it could not open it. 

 

_"I'm so sorry, Toothless, I didn't... mean to scare you like that. I don't kn--"_

 

It was losing the battle against Toothless's memories, and Hiccup's broken body crunched to the snow. 

 

_"Toothless -- I will come back, I -- e can do this, toge -- romise --"_

 

The apparition was leaving him. He struggled to hold onto its voice... but somehow it had become more difficult, like its presence was drifting away from him.

 

_"-- ved you, Toothless -- !"_

 

And then he was nosing a dead hand again, and remembering all his horror, and he woke again with a shriek and a flail of his chained-up limbs and he lay shaking on the cold floor, doubting everything. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toothless ate the next basket of fish readily. He despised himself more then than he had in all his moments of despair in the time since the Massacre. 

 

He listened to the coward guards above discuss his sudden willingness to co-operate, and he was furious. But he also heard them mention that Bludvist and the Alpha would return in five days. 

 

Five days. He'd learnt how long a day was, but he could never be sure of the passage of time down here, it was always cold and dark no matter where the sun was sitting. And, he was always sleeping. He began to panic, feeling the need to -- do something, to make a plan, to -- take some action. Hicc -- the night-visitor asked him to  _avenge_ Berk. If he were to do anything... he had very little time to do it in.

 

But his tail drooped as he came back to the sad fact that nothing he planned to do would be of any use, because as soon as the Alpha came again -- Toothless's mind would be gone. And he would only continue killing, and fighting, and would be powerless to stop it. There was absolutely nothing he could do.

 

" _But if you lie down to die and let us roam so... that, then, really will be your fault."_

 

He whined. He did not want to think of these things.  

 

_"... that, then, really will be your fault."_

 

He covered his head in his paws and moaned. 

 

" _... your fault._ "

 

It already was, it already was. He wished for yet another pebble-counted time that he'd fought the control just a little harder, that he hadn't let himself become so anxious when Bludvist got close to Hiccup -- perhaps he could have controlled himself better, if he'd had his wits about him, or could have removed himself from Hiccup's vicinity once he realised what was happening. He wished for yet another time that Hiccup had had the sense to just kill him right there. He wished yet again that the Alpha had just stepped on him and crushed, and let Hiccup go. Hiccup was human; he heeded no hierarchy, he bowed to no supposed master, his mind was siege-proof. He was the only one who could have saved them. He was the only one who could get vengeance, if he'd wanted it. 

 

_"... your fault."_

 

Toothless knew! Toothless knew! 

 

_"... not... your fault."_

 

It was! It was! 

 

_"No... not... your fault."_

 

He backed into a corner, chains dragging with death-screeches. 

 

_"Toothless..."_

 

He screamed. The guards above came to peer down, and dismissed it as another one of the beast's mad fits. 

 

_"Toothless!"_

 

The new voice, anger.

 

_"Toothless, snap out of it!"_

 

The distant Hiccup with his hand out, eyes wide.

 

_"Toothless! Pay attention to me, bud!"_

 

The new Hiccup, who wanted blood for his kin.

 

_"Toothless, no! Stop!"_

 

The Hiccup, the boy from so long ago, terrified. 

 

_"Toothless, please. Please, you've gotta... you've gotta listen to me. Just -- "_

 

The Hiccup of here and now, and even  _in death_ still pleading.

 

_"Toothless! DAD! NO!"_

 

His Hiccup, who he'd murdered.

 

_"Toothless, I'm here! I'm here! Calm down, bud, come -- come back to me, okay... okay... I'm still here, I've got you... it's me, it's Hiccup, I've got you."_

 

Toothless hadn't known he'd lost consciousness. When he saw, clear as moonlight, impossible  _expression_  in a blue-dead face, he realised he was having his delusions again; there was no real Hiccup sitting next to him in the cell to ease him. 

 

_"No, no, you're not delusional. You're gonna be okay. You're just weak right now, with the starving, and you're... you're upset... but I'm here. Hiccup's here."_

 

For the first time that the night-visitor had appeared, there were no more red-blooded memories assaulting Toothless. For the first time, somehow, it really was just him and... this spirit, weaving in and out of his mind's-eye-vision. 

 

_"I came in your dreams because that was the only time I could get through to you. I'm sorry; your memories are awful. I'm so sorry. I'm sor... oh, Toothless..."_

 

Toothless expected to see the grey-clay image of Hiccup prove itself facsimile right then. Its eyes scrunched in pain, but tears would not come. Tears could not come to something dead. But he still sobbed, even with a mouth sewn shut. It was too much for Toothless to bear. Even if it was ruse. He couldn't bear it. He commanded him to never apologise for this, ever. He received an uncertain shake of the head. 

 

_"I wish I could make you better, Toothless."_

 

Hiccup always could, somehow, with his human brain and his fantastic fingers and his stupidity. But Hiccup was dead, and in no position to help anybody now.

 

_"I... Toothless. We need revenge. He killed us all, and he's made your life worse than eternity in Helheim! I -- I will cut his throat myself! For both of us! I'll steal the life straight out of him!"_

 

Toothless was horrified again. This was uncharacteristic, and Hiccup's borrowed voice had somehow become layered, at once deep and deafening, and shrill and shrieking. But he stopped almost immediately, and the dead mask looked mortified.

 

_"I... oh gods. Toothless. I'm sorry. I keep -- I keep scaring you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

 

Toothless did not like to admit it, but yes. He was scared. He was terrified. This spirit kept entering his thoughts, and after three years of absolutely nothing. The night-visitor was using Hiccup's face and voice, and telling Toothless all the things he wanted to hear, and many things he didn't. Of course he was terrified.

 

What he didn't know: was he more afraid that it was a trick, or that it truly was the  _real_ Hiccup, come back to haunt him, mad for vengeance? His heart was already long-since put out in ice-water. A trick would not hurt him. He didn't care enough for that. But the possibility that his friend really was... roaming, still, in this world... it was sickening. 

 

But it also gave him some faint, faint, sputtering hope.  

 

_"Yes, good, enthusiasm. That's good. Oh, Toothless, I'm so, so sorry. And I'm so glad to see you. You're my best friend, Toothless. And I need you. We all need you. You're the last survivor of Berk."_

 

It felt wrong to be a "survivor". He had been leading the charge, or as best he could, given he was only being led himself. But the Hiccup-apparition shook his head.

 

_"No, no, bud. Don't think like that. You are the only one of us left. Your position might be the most complicated, seeing as we're just all dead, but -- you are Berk's last child."_

 

Was he ignoring all the other dragons, the ones taken into the army? Or were they are dead too? Did he know,  _could_ he know? And since when had Toothless begun to refer to the visitor-spirit as a "he", anyway? 

 

_"I admit I have no link to them, so I am not actually sure how or where they are. But the Alpha has easier control over them than you, I know. I am no use trying to get through to them -- they don't dream anymore. And they wouldn't want to see me, anyway; they'd want to see their riders. But we are all helpless, cut off, blind and wandering, mute and lost in the shadowed edges of reality, and I am only here now because you are still here, Toothless, and I can never leave you."_

 

If the visitor-spirit thought Toothless wasn't going to notice how quickly his speech would change from Hiccup-stammer to cold-wraith-proclamations and back, the visitor-spirit was foolish. But Toothless was finding himself quickly beginning to cease caring about that. He could not stop his heart from reaching out to Hiccup, ever.

 

_"And you can never leave me."_

 

While it was true, it was also terrifying. 

 

_"I-- ! I'm sorry, Toothless! That... that wasn't what I meant at all! I just meant -- I meant, that... you save me, I save you, right? Isn't that what I said?"_

 

And here Hiccup was back, and Toothless thought the dead-mask's expression might have changed, too. 

 

Somehow, yes, his mind had made the leap to calling the visitor  _Hiccup._ It -- he, Hiccup -- blinked, almost, with frozen eyelids. Toothless had been faintly nursing a plan, perhaps, for escape, to avoid allowing his body to be used by the Alpha again... but now he realised at last that maybe Hiccup was fighting his own battle of self-preservation. And that killed his hope.

 

_"Wh-- what's wrong, bud? What happened? Tell me."_

 

Hiccup was dead. Maybe this really was his spirit come to visit him, but it was still... not human. And it was not acting like one. 

 

He could see Hiccup's freefall to despair when he felt the thought, as well as a hard emotion like acceptance. 

 

_"I guess I'm not, huh."_

 

Hiccup looked up. He was set as stone, and as cold. 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Toothless's next meal was somehow calm. He'd kept all the fish down. He felt it all a bad omen, and it only made him more high-strung. He feared he was becoming docile. He feared he was wearing down.

 

In the past, the knowledge that Bludvist could conceivably break him, that one day the dragon-master might not even need the Alpha at all, wounded his pride and made him stubborn. But in the past, he had had absolutely nothing to lose, or fight for. 

 

Now... Toothless was afraid. 

 

Hiccup's ghost explained that it wasn't until this recent fast, the worst one Toothless had managed so far, that Toothless had been weak and dazed enough to allow the spirit admittance to his dreams. Hiccup's ghost had forgotten how long he'd been trying in vain to reach in, but he thought it was almost to the day he'd died; Toothless thought the Massacre was over three years previously, but Hiccup's ghost didn't remember how long a time that was. They agreed, though, that it had been far too long. If the Alpha returned, and Toothless's mind taken again, it could be a long time before Hiccup's ghost could get back to him. And they didn't want to have to do this all over again.

 

Toothless thought dimly that a day might come where Hiccup's ghost had no more access at all, and Toothless would forget himself, and would cease to answer to his name any longer. And then, he supposed, the ghost could just give up, and... wander elsewhere.

_"No. I will protect you, Toothless. Toothless, Toothless, my best friend. I will make sure you don't forget."_

 

The Alpha would not agree, or Bludvist. Toothless thought again of his insane plan from before... but continually discarded it. Hiccup's ghost stopped asking about it. He understood, to an extent. He understood that he was... losing. 

 

Toothless fluttered his eyes open for a moment, sliding out of the doze that brought them together. The two of them, both losing their pieces; when Hiccup had been living, they had thought they could take on anything. But now he was dead and Toothless was wasting and they were slowly eroding, no longer being Hiccup and Toothless as they had been before the world ended around them. 

 

Toothless blinked slowly, but couldn't find the energy to react to the spectre that had somehow managed to follow him even into wakefulness. 

 

_"The more you let me in, the stronger it gets, I think. It's like... it's like you act as, as a ... host. And finding each other again I think makes us stronger."_

Did it? 

  
_"Yes. At least, I think so. Or, at least, it's made me stronger. But, then, I don't have much to go off of on my own. Also, you know. Dead. So it's a little weird. But-- "_ he faltered, and Toothless nearly started back as an expression approaching true passion passed over his friend's ghost's stone-dead features.  _"I feel more... myself than I have in a long. Long time. Even if I suppose I still have... my moments..."_ He looked up. The living expression was gone.  _"But, I think... I don't remember very well, my memory's going very quickly actually, but there were points... I didn't even remember what I wanted blood for. But I felt... it was this horrible thirst for it, I guess. I didn't even remember what I wanted vengeance for. I killed someone, too; literally tore his soul out. I didn't even remember. But I felt like I was rotting, like somehow... I don't know. I was going stir-crazy."_

Toothless remembered many on Berk -- that-Stoick-Hiccup's-father, that-metal-hand-Gobber-he-worked-for, that-Astrid-he-liked, and many others -- that had called Hiccup that when he was living.  _Stir crazy._ He didn't understand what it meant, but it had always been said fondly.

 

Then, he realised... he had not thought about the others from Berk in a long time. The thoughts were too painful. But, somehow, now... having something left of Hiccup taking up residence in him,  _good_ memories did not make his heart squeeze so tightly. 

 

_"Whoa, what? I thought you hated remembering what happened."_

Toothless thought again. He wondered -- he assumed they must all be wandering, too, like Hiccup's ghost had said. He wondered if they were similarly suffering, similarly rotting... and suddenly the memories were too much to bear again. 

 

_"I -- Toothless? It's okay. You don't... calm down. It's okay."_

Toothless could not calm down.

  
_"Bud? Look -- look, it's worse than death to be... wandering, but don't worry about them."_ Somehow, impossibly, the dead man shrugged, despite not having a body... _"We're all dead anyway. Once we move on, we'll all be fine. Don't worry about it."_

And then, in that moment, Toothless lost it. 

 

He screamed, roared, wasted his fire against the cell wall. The fire-ball passed right through the spectre, who now suddenly -- had an entire form. And Toothless shrieked in agony.

 

Hiccup's ghost raised a brow. 

 

The reason this apparition looked dead in the face was because it was stuck in its appearance upon death. Its dead face was the same one Toothless remembered slumped against that-Stoick's chest, eyes forward uselessly, mouth shut. Its newly-made astral body was the same one Toothless remembered seeing twisted horribly upon snapping. Its ghostly midsection was the same one Toothless watched blue fire bore through, spraying its precious contents all over the snow, leaving ribs gaping wide as muscle-matter collapsed inwardly. All the same armour too, ultimately useless, and still -- yes, still covered in blood. Bloody hair. Even -- even the scent of fear remained.

 

And there was a new scent too, and it was awfully like  _decay._

 

Toothless screamed and rolled away as far away as he could go in his restraints, howling and nearly losing his sanity with horror and retching. 

 

_"What's all this about? Are you okay?"_

Toothless couldn't possibly turn. 

 

_"Oh, hey, I guess I have a rest-of-me. That's cool. Toothless, what's wrong?"_

Toothless couldn't turn. He couldn't possibly look upon any apparition that looked like that. It was all his remembered deeds, returning constellation-fold, and he retched again. 

 

_"Huh? What's wrong with me? Why'd you think I look wrong?"_

Toothless would have rather suffered through Hiccup's nightly-remembered death again, than see this. 

 

_"I'm sorry you don't like the way I look, but it's not my fault. I don't look like anything. You're the one projecting form onto me. It's from your memory."_

He tried his best to think back, and to summon a happy memory, if he could: an example of what Hiccup was  _supposed_ to be, as Toothless remembered him. The kinds of memories he had clutched so desperately.  _  
_

Toothless clawed for any remnants of his good days on Berk, the times when they were together, and tried to remember Hiccup smiling, looking -- like himself. Stretched out on grass, turning the scaleless skin on his cheeks a sun-touched red. His stupid face, fallen asleep on Toothless' back. Lively and happy upon discovering something, meeting a new dragon, or putting more things in that giant picture of the ocean he was always making. Imagined anything, but what was behind him.

 

_"Why does it matter to you, anyway? If you try to imagine me differently, I'm still going to be dead. We're all still dead, no matter what you feel about us. Wallowing, grief; they won't bring us back. Pity won't put me to rest, Toothless of Berk."_

 

Berk. Toothless grieved because he was still breathing and he knew who wasn't. The Hiccup he remembered would have understood.

 

_"Huh. Sorry, I guess I don't have that depth of feeling anymore. I've forgotten it."_

 

Toothless could still remember; he was the only one in the world who could still remember Hiccup. So he would remember as hard as he could, for Hiccup's ghost, too, who was forgetting everything. Even if neither of them were human, at least one of them was alive, still. It was the first time in a  _very_ long while Toothless had been glad of that. 

 

And, maybe... maybe his insane plan could work. It was an exchange. They would hold each other together. 

 

_"Hmm. It's not much of a plan, but...I'll do my best, Toothless. But I cannot promise I can really protect your mind from the Alpha. I'm only here by a thread myself."_

 

And in exchange, Toothless would help Hiccup's ghost remember who  _Hiccup_ had been, before his ghost rotted entirely. He forced himself to turn around, and look at the thing sitting behind him.

 

And in exchange: perhaps he could save his Hiccup, this time, from death.

 

_"And in exchange: Drago's blood, and his soul in pieces."_

Desperate, Toothless offered a memory of a sunny winter morning, from a time at the beginning of Toothless and Hiccup, one he'd cherished. A gift his Hiccup had given him.

 

  
_"Forget that. I'm dead. If your memories matter to you -- then hold them close. Don't show them to me."_ Something wavered, and the chill of death might have thawed, for a moment.  _"I'll ruin them. I'm not your Hiccup. They will all become nightmares, too."_

Sudden darkness took Hiccup's ghost's brow, and his fury and thirst could have lit fire. But, then, the dead image retreated, looking almost... heartbroken. 

 

_"I would never wish that upon you."_

 

Baffled and whimpering, Toothless awoke, and there was no dead horror looking eyeless at him. There was no scorch from where he'd blasted in desperation. 

 

His red-memory nightmares had been replaced by a new sleep-visiting terror. The new one was much worse. But embracing it was his only chance. 

 

His paws were bloody from where he'd clawed the floor uselessly, and his heart was bleeding, too. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Alpha was back.

 

Bludvist stood over the grate high above, casting Toothless in an evil shadow, having grown so used to this process that he no longer bothered laughing. Toothless backed up, even though he had no-where to run. 

 

Toothless almost never fought it anymore. He simply waited, and waited as he could feel himself slowly disappearing, and then, upon hearing the Alpha's final call -- there was no Toothless.

 

There was only a Night Fury's body, its mind full of emptiness. 

 

The Night Fury's limbs relaxed, and it padded to the middle of the cell, ever dutiful. It never once twitched or blinked as the jailers from above came down and released it. The guards came back up to the deck, and the Night Fury remained below; its slit-eyes trained blank ahead, awaiting instruction. 

 

Bludvist and the Alpha supplied it. 

 

The prize dragon obeyed Bludvist's every word as he undertook his next glorious campaign. His legions of beasts followed behind, but he hardly needed them; he landed in Gaul with two thousand men and a Night Fury steed and the coastal cross-clutchers stood not a chance. The dragon army marched on. He almost considered leaving for Hibernia again, if only to search for some resistance.

 

Some brave souls tried to counter Bludvist, tried to tame dragons themselves to fight him; but Bludvist laughed as they lay helpless beneath the black beast that would end them, and told them of a young man from the North who had tried the same thing and paid for it.

 

Two thousand more people were dead. But then spring was blowing through the Channel, and the waters were trafficked again, and the swollen dragon army had to retreat lest it get caught between continents and replenished battle-ships. 

 

The sixteenth dragon-legion blasted all boats in their path back North, and burned all the buildings they had left; Bludvist was always wary of leaving survivors who might seek revenge. Blood-feuds had a way of growing unruled, and stamping out whole lineages was a nuisance.

 

 

But not even Drago Bludvist could control the dead.

 

 

 

 

This time, as Toothless had waited for the Alpha to take him, he clung. With his plan still unbuilt, unfinished, his protector still too weak, he grew desperate. He could feel Hiccup's ghost with him, somehow, and before the ghost could protest Toothless lost them both in a memory that would keep them safe, and together, as the darkness closed in. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

It was approaching Midsummer. 

 

The snow had finally all melted, and birds were yapping at each other overhead. Toothless huffed as he woke up, snorted pollen from his nose. He batted at the offending flowers with a tired paw. The plants, barely-petaled with thin purples, had green claws on their upper stems, and Toothless growled. A hand came from his belly, and stayed his first swipe against them. 

 

"Bud, whoa, leave it. What, is the big bad Night Fury afraid of a little flower?"

 

Toothless snorted, and thrust the hand away. He yawned, and his groan echoed in the trees and the cliffs; some of the gossiping birds flew away.

 

"Yeah, yeah, g'morning to you too, Mister Flower-Hater. Now will you let me up? You're getting heavy, bud." 

 

With much deliberateness and no grace, Toothless complied and stood, tumbling the bundle of freckles and limbs he'd kept wrapped against his flank down and onto the grass. His boy hissed at the impact, and nudged himself up, irritated already.

 

"Thanks, man, that's really considerate! I can tell you're really looking out for me, especially after bruising my pretty-much-everything yesterday!" 

 

Toothless laughed. It was a new action, something he'd seen many of the humans do; his throat muscles still did not know how to do it properly, but Hiccup understood all the same. He pouted.

 

"Love you too. You big arse." 

 

Toothless did feel a little bad about the bruises, and so he stopped laughing. He put forth his best big-eyed-hatchling look, and Hiccup sighed, relaxed, and looked at him again with a warm smile. 

 

"C'mere," his boy beckoned, and Toothless almost bruised him again as he came forward for scratches and for warm little hands and for kisses on his rope-scars and for rubbing just the way he liked it. He wriggled, fit as much of himself as he could into his Hiccup's lap, and let his tongue hang out as he basked in the bliss and joy and love of doing absolutely nothing productive at all with his favourite not-quite-two-legger. 

 

Hiccup yawned, and rested his head against Toothless's throat, rubbing still and letting vibrating purrs fill him. He said something about wondering what time it was  -- there was almost no dark-sky anymore this time of year, and it left Toothless's tentative grasp of days confused -- and about getting back before his father became worried; but they were in no rush, and Toothless nudged himself further around and on his boy, trapping him again and nosing his overlong hair.

 

Hiccup laughed, and finally managed to extract himself from his black cuddle-seeking dragon. They explored the little island together, and while Toothless pounced on the dappled-light leaves and barked at birds, Hiccup did those things with his hands that made pictures, putting trees and dragon-tracks and flowers in his little book and announcing that this was a successful excursion, in the end, never mind the cranky gulls and the bruises from when they'd landed. 

 

Toothless came over to see the pictures, and Hiccup pointed at those line-marks he made under them, explaining something. Toothless occupied himself with licking the charcoal smudges off Hiccup's face and hands, and Hiccup tried in vain to get away, insisting that he could wash himself, thank you very much, but Toothless knew better. 

 

Hiccup was his favourite little two-legger hatchling, and he would never leave him. 

"Alright, alright! Frigga  _above_ , I'm clean now, and quite sticky too! You little fiend. Ugh, ew."

 

Toothless laughed. Hiccup sighed.

 

"We'd best be getting back, bud."

 

Oh, alright. 

 

"Let's -- hey. Er. Did... Toothless, did you hear that?"

 

He did. He narrowed his eyes at the low brush, and curled around Hiccup, ready to defend him.

 

"Do you know what that is?"

It smelled -- wrong. He knew the scent from somewhere, and it was  _unnatural._ It stank of fear, and rot.

 

"Whoa, okay. Easy, bud. Let's... nice and quiet, there we go... we'll just tiptoe away and be d--"

 

No, no, Hiccup couldn't turn his back -- 

 

"Toothless, snap out of it!"

A dragon, spitting smoke and seeking blood, came charging from the underbrush -- came at Hiccup -- 

 

"Toothless, no! Stop!"

 

The sneaking dragon was all-black, evil-eyed and wild and there was no way to protect his Hiccup from -- 

 

"Toothless!"

\-- Hiccup's hand was out and he was terrified and it was the dead of winter and it was the dead of Toothless's evil life -- 

 

"Toothless! Dad! NO!"

 

\-- and it was the death and the many deaths and the  _only_  death and the smoke curling from his jaws and it was the dead thing bleeding and rotting on him and in him and looking at him and rising with him when the call for violence echoed in the emptiness.

 

 

 

 

 

It was approaching the autumn solstice. 

 

The snow was already falling, and birds were yapping at each other overhead. Toothless huffed as he woke up, snorted dust from his nose. He batted at the attacking leaves with a sad paw. The plants, weakly-leaved with thin tremblers, had green claws on their upper stems, and Toothless growled. A wandering hand came from his belly, and stayed his first charge against them. 

 

"Bud, whoa, leave it. What, is the big bad Night Fury afraid of a little weed?"

 

Toothless snorted, and thrust the hand away. He yawned, and his groan echoed in the trees and the cliffs; some of the gossiping birds flew away.

 

"Yeah, yeah, g'morning to you too, Mister Weed-Killer. Now will you let me up? You're getting heavy, bud." 

 

With much deliberateness and no grace, Toothless complied and stood, tumbling the bundle of freckles and limbs he'd kept wrapped against his flank down and onto the grass. His boy yelped at the impact, and nudged himself up, irritated already.

 

"Thanks, man, that's really considerate! I can tell you're really looking out for me, especially after spraining my pretty-much-everything yesterday!" 

 

Toothless laughed. It was a new action, something he'd seen many of the humans do; his throat muscles still did not know how to do it properly, but Hiccup understood all the same. He scowled.

 

"Hate you too. You big arse." 

 

Toothless did feel bad about the sprains, and so he stopped laughing. He put forth his best big-eyed-hatchling look, and Hiccup sighed, relaxed, and looked at him again with an unwilling, warm smile. 

 

"C'mere," his boy beckoned, and Toothless almost injured him again as he came forward for scratches and for warm little hands and for kisses on his rope-scars and for rubbing just the way he liked it. He wriggled, fit as much of himself as he could into his Hiccup's lap, and let his tongue hang out as he basked in the bliss and joy and love of doing absolutely nothing productive at all with his favourite not-quite-two-legger. 

 

Hiccup yawned, and rested his head against Toothless's fire-chamber, rubbing still and letting vibrating purrs fill him. He said something about wondering what time it was  -- the day and the night were almost equal, and Toothless could have guessed it was late afternoon -- and about getting back before his father became worried; but they were in no rush, and Toothless nudged himself further around and on his boy, trapping him again and nosing his overlong hair.

 

Hiccup laughed, and finally managed to extract himself from his black possession-seeking dragon. They roamed the little island together, and while Toothless assaulted the dappled-light leaves and snapped at birds, Hiccup did those things with his hands that made pictures, putting trees and dragon-tracks and empty twig-nests in his little book and announcing that this was a successful excursion, in the end, never mind the cranky gulls and the sprains from when they'd landed. 

 

Toothless came over to see the pictures, and Hiccup pointed at those line-marks he made under them, explaining something. Toothless occupied himself with licking the snow and dirt off Hiccup's face and hands, and Hiccup tried in vain to get away, insisting that he could wash himself, thank you very much, but Toothless knew better. 

 

Hiccup was his favourite little two-legger hatchling, and he would never leave him. 

"Alright, alright! Frigga  _above_ , I'm clean now, and quite sticky too! You little devil. Ugh, ew."

 

Toothless laughed. Hiccup sighed.

 

"We'd best be getting back, bud."

 

Oh, alright. 

 

_"We'd best be getting back, bud."_

Yeah, sure, if Hiccup said so.

 

"Let's -- hey. Er. Did... Toothless, did you hear that?"

 

He did. He narrowed his eyes at the low brush, and curled around Hiccup, ready to defend him.

 

"Do you know what that is?"

It smelled -- wrong. He knew the scent from somewhere, and it was  _unnatural._ It stank of fear, and rot.

 

"Whoa, okay. Easy, bud. Let's... nice and quiet, there we go... we'll just tiptoe away and be d--"

 

No, no, Hiccup couldn't turn his back -- 

 

"Toothless, snap out of it!"

A dragon, spitting smoke and seeking blood, came charging from the underbrush -- came at Hiccup -- 

 

"Toothless, no! Stop!"

 

The sneaking dragon was all-black, evil-eyed and wild and there was no way to protect his Hiccup from -- 

 

"Toothless!"

\-- Hiccup's hand was out and he was terrified and it was the dead of winter and it was the dead of Toothless's evil life -- 

 

"Toothless! Dad! NO!"

 

\-- and it was the death and the many deaths and the  _only_  death and the smoke curling from his jaws and it was the dead thing bleeding and rotting on him and in him and looking at him and rising with him when the call for violence echoed in the emptiness.

 

 

 

 

 

It was the Fimbulwinter. 

 

The ice would never melt, and dragons were screaming at each other overhead. Toothless huffed as he woke up, blasted ice from his nose. He batted at the enemy snow-drifts with a scarred paw. The snow, hard and compact as metal or dragon-scale, was covered in blood, and Toothless roared. A disembodied hand came from his belly, and stayed his first attack against it. 

 

"Bud, whoa, leave it. What, is the big bad Night Fury afraid of a little blood?"

 

Toothless snorted, and thrust the hand away. He yawned, and his screech echoed in the caves and the cliffs; some of the circling dragons flew off to their master.

 

"Yeah, yeah, g'morning to you too, Mister Human-Murderer. Now will you let me up? You're getting heavy, bud." 

 

With much deliberateness and no grace, Toothless complied and stood, tumbling the bundle of freckles and limbs he'd kept wrapped against his flank down and onto the ice. His boy howled at the impact, and nudged himself up, furious already.

 

"Thanks, man, that's really considerate! I can tell you're really looking out for me, especially after breaking my absolutely-everything yesterday!" 

 

Toothless wept. It was a new action, something he'd seen many of the humans do; his reptile eyes were not supposed to be leaking, but Hiccup understood all the same. He glowered. Blood was coming from his mouth.

 

"Damn you to Helheim. You big arse." 

 

Toothless did feel awful about the broken bones, and so he continued weeping. He put forth his best abject-remorse look, and Hiccup sighed, relaxed, and looked at him again with an unwilling smile. 

 

"C'mere," his boy beckoned, and Toothless almost crushed him again as he came forward for scratches and for warm little hands and for kisses on his rope-scars and for rubbing just the way he liked it. He wriggled, fit as much of himself as he could into his Hiccup's lap, and let his tongue hang out as he basked in the bliss and joy and love of doing everything he'd missed for three years with his favourite not-quite-two-legger. 

 

Hiccup yawned, and rested his head against Toothless's smoking jaws, rubbing still and letting vibrating fire-rumble fill him. He said something about wondering what year it was  -- there was no time in his realm of existence, and Toothless was never very good at tracking human seasons -- and about getting to sleep before his essence dissipated; but they were in no rush, and Toothless nudged himself further around and on his boy, cradling him again and nosing his bloody hair.

 

Hiccup laughed, and finally managed to extract himself from his black blood-thirsty dragon. They drifted around the little island together, and while Toothless murdered the reflecting icicles and blasted fire at shadows, Hiccup did those things with his hands that made pictures, putting spears and dragon-tracks and war-machines in his little book and announcing that this was a successful excursion, in the end, never mind the vacant-eyed dragons and the snapped spine from when he'd landed. 

 

Toothless came over to see the pictures, and Hiccup pointed at those line-marks he made under them, explaining something. Toothless occupied himself with licking the dried blood off Hiccup's face and hands, and Hiccup tried in vain to get away, insisting that he wasn't dead, thank you very much, but Toothless knew better. 

 

Hiccup had been his favourite being, living or dead, and he would never leave him. 

"Alright, alright! Frigga  _above_ , I'm dead now, and quite rotted too! You murderer. Ugh, ew."

 

Toothless cried. Hiccup sighed.

 

"We'd best be getting back, bud."

 

Oh, alright. 

 

_"We'd best be waking up, bud."_

Yeah, sure, if Hiccup said so.

 

"Let's -- hey. Er. Did... Toothless, did you hear that?"

 

He did. He narrowed his eyes at the ice and the bodies, and curled around Hiccup, ready to defend him.

 

_"Do you remember?"_

Hiccup smelled -- wrong. Toothless knew the scent from somewhere, and it was  _unnatural._ Hiccup stank of fear, and rot.

 

"Whoa, okay. Easy, bud. Let's... nice and quiet, there we go... we'll just tiptoe away and be d--"

 

No, no, Hiccup couldn't turn his back -- 

 

_"Toothless, get us out of here!"_

A dragon, spitting smoke and seeking blood, came charging from the battlefield -- came at Hiccup -- 

 

"Toothless, no! Stop!"

 

The murderous dragon was all-black, evil-eyed and wild and there was no way to protect his Hiccup from -- 

 

_"Toothless!"_

\-- Hiccup's hand was out and he was terrified and it was the dead of winter and it was the dead of Toothless's evil life -- 

 

"Toothless! Dad! NO!"

 

\-- Bludvist taught a hard lesson to a young Viking with a heart too full of love and blood that ripped apart on Toothless's jaws as his basest nature came forth again and he forgot -- 

 

_"Toothless, it wasn't your fault."_

 

\-- the young blonde from Gaul had Hiccup's facial spots and misshapen teeth and his side was still leaking gore from where the Changewing he'd called Helene had feasted upon him -- 

 

" _Bud, hey... it wasn't your fault. We're back now, we're awake... Drago's gone, the Alpha's gone. We're back. We're back. It's alright. I'm here. It was a Typhoomerang, that day, you remembered. You told it to piss off and it did. It's alright. We're back. We're together."_

Toothless gasped and opened his eyes, and saw the walls of his cell again, and cried in relief and panic and guilt as the memories of fifty-six days under the Alpha --  _fifty-six days, he knew: this time, somehow, he'd kept count --_ came crashing into him. 

 

Hiccup's ghost was there too, and the flood of red and death almost took his little failing sparking spirit, but he held on. The warmth of a summer's day where nothing at all had happened still touched him, put perhaps a touch of colour in his lips again, brought perhaps a hint of sun to his winter-dark eyes. And Toothless, trapped still in a returning tide of horror, held onto his Hiccup's ghost with desperate dream-claws -- as if losing Hiccup would kill him.

 

There's no way to say it hadn't already.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Hiccup had taken ill after they'd killed The Queen,  _Red Death_ as that-book-one-Fishfoot had named it. Toothless knew it was his fault -- he would never forget the taste of Hiccup's  _blood_  -- but he had no regrets. His boy had woken at last, stiff with a moon's cycle of deathly slumber, and smiled. Toothless had snorted at him, love and care and impatience, and Hiccup rested his head against the head -- the jaws -- that had bedridden him, and breathed. He felt no fear, and he lived. He walked again in time. He ran, even, and danced two years at the Viking's winter feasts. He stumbled often, but Toothless always caught him. Hiccup had considered it a necessary sacrifice.

 

And Toothless never regretted what he'd done. His Hiccup had lived, so regret was useless.

 

But his Hiccup had not lived.

 

And Toothless never regretted what he'd done. His brother had not lived anyway, so regret was useless.

 

Never regretted it.

 

But, now. Until, now. Now, now. 

 

Now, he regretted everything.

 

Now, he was all terror. 

 

Now, he was all  _guilt_.

 

Now, he was all grief.

 

Now, he was only death.

 

Now, he curled. He clawed himself, worried open the nicks on his tail where the too-tight tar-black fin had pinched him. The taste of metal lingered there.

 

Now, he cried. He choked on blocked-up waters, sad flame-flickers dancing from his mouth and dying.

 

Now, he was inconsolable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, a cold hand in his heart offered quietude.

 

He did not deserve anything but blame. He refused.

 

And the hand lingered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was standing there, hand outstretched, speaking terror. And he was still there. He remained there. He smelt of rot, but he was still there. 

 

His hand was there. But it acted as if his gentle-nuzzling snout was not. 

 

He had not left. He  _had not left._

 

The hand was still there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the death, and the many deaths, and the  _only_  death. It was the smoke curling from his jaws, and it was the dead thing bleeding, and rotting on him and in him, and looking at him. And it was rising with him when the call for  _violence_  echoed in the emptiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, if he had only run _away._

 

Oh, why  _hadn't he_   _fled?_

 

_Oh, why didn't I leave you?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_They were bound together. One-half dead. One half-dead._

 

_What a foul murder was had. But it was of no matter._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He would not leave him._  He would save him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He had not left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was quiet.

 

They lay on the floor, harsh breaths rising and falling and tugging gently at chains. Toothless groaned, and death-smoke came from his nostrils. He blinked; no, no. It was only steam. It was still early-spring-cold, and the ship was sailing north. It was only steam. 

 

Toothless shifted, rolled off of his left side, which felt sore. He decided not to touch his fresh memories to figure out when he'd hurt himself; Gaul was still oozing in him. The young blonde's name was something like Bertrand, or Bertram.

 

The Alpha wasn't very far away: only perhaps a day gone with Bludvist. But Toothless was himself, and Hiccup was too -- his ghost was stored away safe in Toothless's mind, weak from what they had endured, but there. Toothless wasn't sure how he knew this; but he imagined he could feel still the moment where the real Hiccup -- real because he was as remembered, and because he was more than that --  held him and scratched and caressed and loved him, and Toothless's dragon-fire was death-chill next to his glowing heart. That spark was with him even now.

 

Or, at least,  _something_  was.

 

Toothless sighed, twitched his claws. His hopes of resisting the Alpha were all but crushed; there was no escape, when one's mind was overtaken. His only comfort was the ghost's survival, and the tiny corner of memory they'd tucked themselves into. He had never managed so much before. 

 

He would have preferred not witness the beautiful memory _decay_ around him; but then again, life was harsh, and death cruel, and betrayal the worst horror.

 

Hiccup could have vouched for that, seeing he'd endured all three. 

 

There was fish then, and Toothless ate, and he remembered something like peace. It was the strangest thing, and it left him uneasy. He thought he could still smell blood on his paws; peace had no business being near him. 

 

But he slept and, for once,  _did not dream at all._

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Toothless finally rose properly, Hiccup was already there, waiting. 

 

_"Good morning."_

 

Was it morning? Could he tell, from down in this dank? 

 

_"It's morning. You've just woken up, so I've decided it's morning."_

 

Toothless supposed he could follow that logic. 

 

_"So! We need to talk about our plan."_

 

With a groan, Toothless pushed himself up, folding his paws to sit neat as he could. He still ached all over; there were bruises and nicks on his wings, and a recurring blister from where Bludvist's saddle rubbed his scales away. He brought his tongue around to clean it, but stopped, and looked in horror and wonder as more scales fell from him. They were faded in colour, and looked brittle. The weak light passed through them. 

 

Usually, Toothless woke patched up after battles, sometimes with an extra collar on to prevent him scratching his wounds. He had allowed himself to be drugged more than once, so that a healer would come down to see to him. But, this time, his welts had been left to the damp air. They smelt foul.  _Plagued._

 

He looked at Hiccup, almost afraid. They had failed, and Toothless was ill. 

 

_"I said: we need to talk about our plan. I thought you handled the Alpha's control brilliantly, back there. I hadn't really believed it would work, but it did. Now, we just have to take the next steps."_

 

Despite everything -- his complete failure in resisting the Alpha no matter what Hiccup said, his waning scales on the floor, the completed dead-form of Hiccup sitting cross-legged -- Toothless was listening. 

 

_"We need to work on it, but I think it might be possible for me to protect your mind, like you suggested. I think I can do it. But even if we manage that, we'll need to get the help of other dragons to actually fight him. We can't really do that yet, if we're stuck in here all the time, and if everyone else is under control whenever we’re let outside for campaigns. "_

 

Toothless looked up. In the distance, he thought he could perhaps hear dragon-speak, but it was indistinct. Or, it was merely wishing. 

 

_"We will need out of this cell."_

 

Toothless sniffed his flank again. Perhaps the humans did not know yet it was infected. 

 

_"But, first."_

 

Hiccup's blasted chest was no longer concave. 

 

_"We need to practice."_

 

Black scales had grown from his ribcage, to fill the space. 

 

_"You need to let me in again."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the death. And the many deaths. And the only death. And it was the smoke curling from his jaws. And it was the dead thing bleeding. And rotting on him. And in him. And looking at him. And it was risi _ng with him when the call for violence echoed in the emptiness._

 

_And he called back. And it was with him._

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

On the top deck of  _Black-Jowled Titan_ , as Drago Bludvist's largest cargo-ship was called, three soldiers broke into a run. The ship's commander, older than all of the three by two score years at least, was keeping himself to a brisk walk as he led them. He frowned.

 

"What do you mean, 'berserk'?"

 

Adjusting his helmet and panting, the young guard who'd fetched him spoke up. It was closer to a squeak; he was quite young.

 

"I mean  _berserk!_ Like a mad Northman! It was -- it was running against the walls, and then in circles, as if it meant to catch its own tail! It started hitting its head against the floor, insensibly; we could feel the shaking from the deck. And it shrieks like a demon."

 

He needn't have added as much. Even on the top deck, with the sounds of the wind and water and gulls above, the lost dragon-screams resounded from below. It sounded like a lioness divested of its cubs. The superior frowned deeper still.

 

"You know the  _Nattfasa_  has had episodes before. The General --"

 

"I -- I know! But this is -- this is different, sir, I swear! It's -- whatever's happened to it, sir -- it's nothing of God's work."

 

"Right, then." The commander turned to the other two, who jogged uncomfortable behind. "Klemen, Faris, join Hoebaer in manning the hatch. Isa and I will use the peep-hole."

 

The party split up; the two others left them, while the commander took young Isa below-deck. The ladder reached three levels; the press of soldiers and cargo gave way to cages, and hundreds of beady slit-eyes, watching the two humans as they crept down. A Snaggle-tusk sudden snapped at Isa's heels, but the beast's muzzle was on a short chain, and it howled impotence and rage. The commanding officer brandished a long whip. A Timberjack hissed. 

 

Isa clutched his heart; if only his mother could see him now, frightened still by chained-up dragons. The humans continued on. 

 

As they descended, the inhuman screaming only grew in volume. Great metal thuds shook the planks. 

 

They finally alighted at the last-but-one deck. They passed the surplus dragon-cages, and barrels of oil and water, and great rolls of fur and canvas, and rack upon rack of polearms, cruel curved halberds and antique sarissas. At the back, there was a door, and both soldiers took torches and lit them. Then they moved into the darkness. 

 

The crashing and the howling became concussive cacophony in the narrow passage; its low ceilings pressed the sounds heavy upon them, almost making breathing labourious. They met another ramp down, short this time, and when they had cleared it they approached a dead end. 

 

The beast ceased shrieking possessed for a moment, and they, on the other side of the wall, could hear heavy and hot breaths as it lay gasping deep. Isa was stilled by a warning hand in the silence. Then, Drago Bludvist's  _Nattfasa_ began again. 

 

The commander took advantage of the racket to step forward and pull aside a thin panel. It opened not half a finger-length wide, but it was just enough to allow him a view into the bottom of the oubliette.  

 

Only the thinnest of light-beams plunged into these depths; the movement of shadows, dark forms of the guards above, was almost indiscernible. But one shadow, in its current throes of madness and calls like mourning, was quite visible. 

 

When General Bludvist acquired this monster (rumour told it had come, begging, to his heels to be rid of its former weak master), it had been a beautiful specimen; its scales gleamed like obsidian, like the heirloom chalcedony the commander had long-since lost to the Adriatic Sea when slavers took him. Now, though, the  _Nattfasa_  was unpolished: dull as worthless stone, and clusters of thin scales teemed around its scars, all neat-healed but hideous regardless. It writhed, smacking the wall, saliva and sparks leaping from its maw. Unfiled claws scraped and pawed at its gentle belly, and the commander leaned forward, fearful almost that the animal would disembowel itself. But then it lost its fire and slumped, snorting weak and lying heaped. It licked the bit-callouses in its mouth absently. 

 

As it turned, it laid bare angry patches on its flank and neck. Their colour was as varied as opal, but thousandfold less desirable. Slight yellow liquids were leaking from them. It twitched sudden, and retched, spotting the hay -- covered in its filth already -- red and runny.

 

The commander sighed. The orders had been clear. 

 

"Sir, what's happening? Is it -- is it ill, sir?"

 

"Fever, I think. Delirium. It has an infection."

 

Isa lifted a bony hand to his mouth. "Fever?" He spoke in a remembering whisper; the word had chased him even here, to the frigid sea. His commander did not turn to look at him. "Sir --"

 

"The  _Devil_  take him! I know not how he expected else. It's not been well for months."

 

"... Sir?"

 

He turned at last. "There may be time still. We will have to render it unconscious first. Fetch the doctor. I doubt the oubliette is a healthy environs for it; perhaps it should be moved too..."  

 

"Sir! I, er. I don't mean to, to doubt you sir. But I thought the General said not --"

 

"I know full well what he said. That is why he will not hear of this."

 

The young soldier swallowed, eyes wide. The commander surveyed him: his chin was innocent of any hairs; but for their differing accents in Latin and complexions, he could have been the superior's grandson. What dark days were these; children were doing this damnable work. God had abandoned them, seeing how they were wasting their allotted thousand years. But there was time yet to sweep it all away. 

 

"Hear of what, sir?" Isa said, straight-backed.

 

A smile. A small one, just a touch at the corner of the commander's beard. It was a comfort. Isa could not remember anymore the scent of his mother's bread. 

 

"There's a good lad," the old commander said. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Considering the reputation Drago Bludvist had abroad, one would have imagined his men enjoyed battle. Some did, but they were all gone with him to seek it. The rest of them, giant ships with the cargo and the cages, receiving new catches from trappers who wouldn't stay two minutes, were grim men, and avoided their General's conflicts. And they had a certain code established.

 

Isa learnt the code that day.

 

The commander of the  _Black-Jowled Titan_ stood erect and watched. A dozen oar-men had been brought up to work the pulleys, and at last they heaved the senseless weight out of the cell. It swung on the chain above, mangled tail dangling over the board it had been bound fast to. The load was brought to rest on the deck at last, and the chains fell away. The dragon did not so much as stir. Then, its makeshift gurney was carried away, to be put in the doctor's keeping.

 

General Bludvist had left orders to let the  _Nattfasa_ suffer its wounds untreated this time, to remind it whose charity it depended on. His word, his power, was absolute; he was a man one never quarrelled with. But, when General Bludvist was away, quarrel was not necessary. The  _Nattfasa_ would be saved, if the goodness of God would encompass such Hell-spawn. 

 

It was simple, and every man involved -- more than a score total, from the oar-men to the guards to the doctor and the  _principales --_ agreed. General Bludvist was not a man to cross, and if his prize  _Nattfasa_ died of the fever, he would then be very cross, indeed.

 

Isa learnt that what the General didn't know couldn't hurt them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Well?"

 

The ship's doctor sighed. "Not much to tell you yet, sir. I'd say there's no fever, but with dragons -- you can hardly tell, anyway. It's strong, though. The infection is healing. I wouldn't worry yet." The commander glanced at it. Even bound and muzzled, lying like dead in a (dry, and clean) cage in the hold, the animal inspired awe. Behind the two men, other caged dragons chittered, squawks and barks drowning the conversation. "Magnificent beast, though. Do you know what  _Nattfasa_ means, what the Northmen call it? It means 'Night Fear', or 'Night Terror'." 

 

The commander considered, and nodded at the creature. "Well, I suppose if anything were to frighten a Godless heathen, this would be it."

 

"Yes, wouldn't it," the doctor laughed dry, rubbing his nose.

 

There was a pause. "Though, I do wonder: how did any heathen manage to tame this thing? It's been three years now the General's, and it's still but a demon."

 

A shrug. "Who knows but God? Perhaps it was magic. Or a blood sacrifice. Or luck." The doctor straightened, and collected his poultices. "I'll let you know, sir, if anything changes."

 

"Good. We have four weeks."

 

"Right."

 

The commander turned to leave, but before he could, he stopped dead, staring into the cage again.

 

The  _Nattfasa --_ Fearful Night of the North -- had its eyes open, watching them. But then it blinked once, twice and its eyes lost focus, one pupil slit wild and one wide with wondering, and then it wasn't watching them anymore.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A week and a half passed. The sick  _Nattfasa_  was improving remarkably; but the other dragons in the hold had become mad as gnats, and their ever-present babble could be heard on every deck. The presence of the  _Nattfasa_ among them excited the animals greatly. There were too many of them to discipline, so the crew simply left the creatures to their very loud rebellion. 

 

The  _Nattfasa_ had woken -- how could it not, with all that racket -- and each time it did, it watched any nearby humans, unblinking. The doctor, a man who quailed at naught, confessed himself that the Fear from the North was a little too intelligent-eyed for his liking.

 

Finally, the beast was deemed 'back on its feet' after another week; the oubliette had been scrubbed thorough and fresh hay laid down. The time had come to ensconce it there again. 

 

The rest of the dragons were livid. Perhaps they believed it was leaving for the slaughter; they roared after it as it was carried away, rattling their own cages, raving wild. Their shrieks seemed to shake even the sail.

 

The  _Nattfasa_ was back in its cell, chained up but for a rope instead around its neck and one paw, to go easier on the wounds. When it woke, it was docile enough. Lethargic. The doctor, far above, swore; he was really quite too old to climb down there. He left to inform the commander of these troubles. 

 

Isa and Hoebaer peered through the grate, the bare form of the dragon curled silent in the dark. Hoebaer sighed.

 

"Damned thing, giving us so much grief. Though I guess it can't help it."

 

"No."

 

"Hmm."

 

They stared into the black. Isa held his polearm tight. "It still frightens me. Even now."

 

"Yea; that it does."

 

That night had been pitch, Isa remembered. He hadn't known yet to be afraid, and still he'd run. That was long ago.

 

Isa was a foolish boy, and he lifted the grate.

 

Hoebaer blinked. "What --? Are you mad?"

 

Isa crouched down, sitting as if to enter the cell. Which he was. 

 

"Probably."

 

"Isa..."

 

He lowered a rope, and thrust the end into Hoebaer's hand. Hoebaer glanced worried away, but held on. Isa disappeared past the rim, and Hoebaer had to crane his neck to see him. 

 

"I'm just going to check on it. Mayhap, it's just tired."

 

"Isa, you idiot child!"

 

"Shh!" 

 

Isa climbed down, as if into the great Abyss, had he honestly believed in such. 

 

"Isa! So help me..."

 

"It's fine!"

 

But then his foot slipped. He cried out.

 

"Isa!"

 

He dangled, and tried to place his feet again, but the walls were slippery with salt-moisture. His hands rubbed raw on the rope, and then his line jerked, and went slack at his end. Hoebaer cried dismay and swiped for its fleeing tail, but missed. 

 

"ISA!"

 

The boy fell.

 

He was small in stature, and he rolled when he landed. He'd made it most of the way; the drop was but six feet, and the hay was thick. But he jarred his hip and shoulder, and his neck had an awful feeling about it. 

 

His heart had a worse feeling. He was scrunched in a corner, hands over his head, and there was a dragon sudden woken by his cry, staring at him. 

 

Above, Hoebaer was calling for help, and  _principales_ were calling for the commander, and the doctor came back and swore again. The dragon was standing.

 

Well, at least they knew now it wasn't ill. The commander came, calling down.

 

"Isa, lad! Be calm." He turned to the deck. "Get another length!"

 

"I'm calm! Pray God, I've never been calmer!" Isa wheezed, sounding anything but.

 

" _Stay_  calm, then!" 

 

The dragon was still staring. 

 

"Good, rope! Isa, lad, get the rope! You will be all right."

 

Isa tried to stand. The rope began to wander down, but the dragon saw it, looked at the crowd above, and  _roared._ Isa put his back to the wall. The dragon spat fire up, and the men dodged, one narrowly preserving his beard. The rope continued descending. 

 

The  _Nattfasa_ was a proud beast, and had taken great offense. It leapt, claws shrieking the metal wall, and the ropes around its neck and back paw snapped. 

 

"No! The ropes!"

 

The monster realised then it was part free, and turned, giving up the wall. It stalked closer to its accidental captive.

 

"Isa! Your weapon!"

 

Its handle was between them, and Isa lunged for it, swinging the polearm up with a great cloud of hay and dust and pointing it in the dragon's face. It screamed, but did not pounce.

 

"You! You, stay back! Don't -- don't hurt me. I just came to -- to check on you. But you're obviously well! So, don't. Don't kill me, please. I don't want to have to hurt you! I -- I'm not allowed anyway!"

 

Isa ibn Yusuf, now far-lost from al-Andalus, was staring down the Night Fear of the Heathen North, and was shaking like a goat-babe. 

 

"Please, just. I'm sorry."

 

The dragon was still looking at him, doing nothing. He tried to straighten up. 

 

The dragon cocked its great head. 

 

It looked away from him, at something in the wall behind him, but when he turned his gaze a mite to look, there was nothing there. 

 

The dragon blinked, and shook it head frantic, as if fleas like foul whispers had nested inside. But it looked at the wall again. Isa bit his lip. He was not prepared to think that there were things in the world that he could not see, but that monsters could full well.

 

Above, all held their breath. Isa was too young. They hied the rope down as quick as they could. 

 

Then. 

 

The great animal took a step, and another step. Backwards, it went. It folded itself proud into the other wall, head high. And it did not pounce. 

 

Isa almost dropped the polearm. In his peripheral vision, he perceived a rope. He started towards it, but then stopped. 

 

The dragon glanced at the wall. And then it looked back to Isa, and nodded. 

 

The assembled humans gasped. 

 

The mighty being watched him, in perfect patience.

 

Isa seized the rope, needing not to be twice-told, and scrambled up faster than anything. The hatch was closed quick, but gazes lingered on the monster who knew mercy. 

 

The commander gripped Isa's shoulders, and shook him. "Are you all right, lad?"

 

Isa wheezed on. But he nodded. 

 

Drago Bludvist's Night Fear was still watching them. But then it moved, and curled up again, as if naught momentous had happened at all. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The General returned early. The game was up.

 

They should have been prepared for this.

 

He was not a conqueror with a set plan of action. He wandered, battling where and whom promised the most entertainment in the season. He came and went, like a Viking raider himself; collecting  _gafol_ -taxeswhen he felt like it and enjoying the flames when he didn't. He levelled the kingdom of Jórvik, and then abandoned it entirely. He had little interest in holding onto land; he would take plunder and women, but his main aims were simpler.  _Fear_ he wanted,and  _dragons_ of course. So, whenever he felt he'd gotten enough of those for the time being, Drago Bludvist disappeared back North, naught but a nightmare-name, uttered hushed in dark hours and tales of dragon-slaughter.

 

As his battleships appeared the horizon, it was with tens of thousands of dragons swarming swollen above, as if the Alpha dragon were a fire in the dark. Isa had never seen so many before. 

 

They should have been prepared, but it was a miracle the _Nattfasa_ 's dressings had even been taken off. Their commander said to let him handle the General; Bludvist would exact revenge upon him, inflict pain, but would not kill him for such a slight misdemeanour. He would bear it. They had nothing to fear. They should regret none of their actions.

 

Isa gripped his polearm, and glanced through the hatch again. The  _Nattfasa_ looked back. Isa had thought perhaps the dragon had recognised him in the days since he fell into the oubliette; now he wasn't as sure any more of that. But then Klemen slapped Isa's arm, and the  _Black-Jowled Titan's_ crew scrambled to attention as The General boarded.

 

He was a hulking man, wearing dragon-skin the shade of pitch. Isa wondered for the first time if, perhaps,  _Nattfasor_ were the only black dragons out there. He did not like to think it. 

 

"I hope the campaign went well, sir." If the ship's commander were anxious, he showed nothing of it. He was perhaps the only man of them who would dare speak to the General unbidden. 

 

"Beautiful, Ansprand. And such good spoil." The General didn't bother to gesture up. They could all hear the dragon-din clear enough. 

 

"Ah, yes," was the commander Ansprand's only answer. 

 

The crowding crew parted, as a flood fleeing from the General's heavy steps. A low growling sound resonated from deep below them. It set every heart but one into seizing fright.  

 

"And there's my crown jewel," Bludvist laughed softly. 

 

Isa swallowed. 

 

This animal was going to be the death of them. They had valued it over their own lives, and for what?

 

But what of it? What value did it place on one human life?

 

Isa glanced down at it again. It was watching him, waiting, expecting, monstrous-eyed but blinking wide and almost -- afraid? (Impossible.) But then Isa heard that odd warble, the call of the giant Alpha watching them scurry on the ship as ants, and he saw the  _Nattfasa_ be overcome easy.

 

He would not realise until later what he felt then, as the beast was retrieved from below and hung horse-tame at Bludvist's side. 

 

_It wasn't fair,_  he thought. Even if the dragon was malformed by God and a menace to all His children and as moth-mad as its molten breath was deadly,  _it wasn't fair._

 

There was good in all creatures, right? It had not eaten him, even when it had the chance. There was a shred of goodness in even it too, perhaps.

 

Isa wouldn't dispute the horror of dragons, the pale they had cast over his entire life; he understood as any aboard the vessel that Bludvist was the only one of them monstrous enough himself to keep dragons from ripping them all apart. 

 

But the General hadn't been there when he fell into the oubliette, had he? It wasn't Bludvist to whom he owed his life. 

 

It was not General Bludvist who had thought it worthwhile.

 

Isa was young, he reminded himself, as others often scolded him. He did not understand these things. 

 

He did not quite have the time to figure it all out, besides.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bludvist looked at his dragon and saw their disobedience immediately. His jaw clenched, his brow darkened, and he radiated terror.

 

Then the General straightened, smiled. He ran a hand over its docile form and laughed; it was a cruel sound, hollow and horrid, and he turned to Ansprand. "What nice stitches the beast has."

 

There was silence. 

 

Ansprand lifted his chin.

 

All men in this crew respected their commander Ansprand deeply. He was old enough to be father to many. He was a good man; he was not afraid of the frightful cargo they carried.

 

It was a tight ship, loyal crew, bound together fast. If it had been anyone other than Drago Bludvist speaking to him so, they would have rallied to his defence, no matter what he’d said.

 

But none would face Drago Bludvist, and so none interceded. 

 

"I seem to remember, friend Ansprand," the General began, "leaving some very specific orders. Regarding my  _Nattfasa._ If your memory is going in age that's no good for either of us." 

 

"Which orders, sir? There are many."

 

General Bludvist began to stalk closer, the  _Nattfasa_ close behind him. "You know damn well which ones. But if you'd as fain continue equivocating, I'll just kill you for it right now."

 

"I'm afraid I still don't know what you mean." 

 

"Unfortunate. Senility gets us all in the end, it seems." He half-turned, and placed a hand possessive-proud on the  _Nattfasa's_ head. "It's always that; or else, dragon-fire." 

 

"Indeed." 

 

Bludvist chuckled. 

 

Even in the grips of terror, Isa saw how the General was playing. It was vile, he thought, and aweing, and he realised that the commander must have already known that this would unfold in such a manner. He was a toy, not meal-matter. Isa reeled in having figured such out.  

 

"Would you like to see then, friend Ansprand, what dragon-fire can do? My  _Nattfasa_ is in such good  _health_ , it's hardly a trouble. More of a trouble for you, I expect." His hand on the animal did not move, but already it had begun to growl, slit-eyed and horrid. 

 

Every man there tried to back off as sly-invisibly as possible. And every one of them was so stark-obviously afraid. Ansprand did not budge, though. He held Bludvist's gaze, despite the unholy North's most abject terror approaching him. 

 

"It's a lovely creature, isn't it?" Ansprand remarked, light as courage. 

 

"It's a monster. Have you gone soft, Ansprand?"

 

"What have you that impression? A man can admire his master's assets, can he not?"

 

"... You wanted it for yourself, then, did you?"

 

For the first time, Ansprand's expression betrayed him. But it only showed consternation. "What? Of course not," he said, losing all the patient reserve of before. It was a demented question.

 

"No? Then what?"

 

"I'm afraid I still don't know what you're talking about."

 

Bludvist had lost his minute window, and he grew sudden angry; he glared and roared and extended an arm out, bidding the Alpha to give the order. 

 

Deathly whistling began to flow from the  _Nattfasa,_ bearing down on Ansprand.

 

"You still don't remember?"

 

"Frankly, sir, you've not put me in a position to jog my memory." 

 

"No? You've not put me in a position to help you out here, Ansprand."

 

The whistling was near-deafening. The monster backed Ansprand up to the bulwark. Several men glanced at each other, hands uncertain upon their weapons. Ansprand stood proud, sparing a glance for the  _Nattfasa_ with which the General threatened him. The beast that was both slave and weapon.

 

He was not sure, but he thought later that perhaps his and the dragon’s eyes met. He didn't have the time to think about it, or for the next evasive utterance he had planned.

 

The deck was thrown sudden into chaos. 

 

The  _Nattfasa_ screeched, deranged and incomprehensible, and suddenly reared. It threw itself away from Ansprand, as if an invisible hand had pushed it clear. It writhed on its back, came to its hind legs, and twisted wings wide. It knocked nearby crewmen aside as if they were air; spittle and smoke was flung about from its maw as it seized and thrashed like a mad-man. 

 

Mad-dragon. 

 

The foundations even of Hell (or was it Heaven?) were sudden shaken. 

 

Almost four years, and not once had the animal resisted its master.

 

Bludvist roared at it, lunging to seize a polearm from Eadwig's hand. The Alpha above sent waves crashing over the bulwark as it bore down, scolding it with a penetrating, deep-sowed rumble. But the  _Nattfasa_ was not cowed.

 

It shook its great head as it flung about, as if to be rid of swarming screaming gnats in its skull. Ropes were flung over it, a net, but it threw each one off, battling aside any man who came close. Its tail hit Bludvist clean across the midriff, and he went tumbling. 

 

Ulf went to Ansprand's side, pulled him away from the monster. No-one knew what to do now.

 

Their General lunged at the  _Nattfasa_ with a howl, swinging the polearm above his head. He sought to dominate the indomitable thing at last. The Alpha concentrated all its might upon the errant slave.

 

The  _Nattfasa_  righted itself, stood at last and low, growling evilly, at its ruler. One pupil was slit cruel, the other large and round and whole. But then even that disappeared, and all seemed as before.

 

Except, of course, for the fact the  _Nattfasa_ had chosen a new sovereign, apparently. 

 

It shrieked as flying death, wings thrashing agitated as if it meant to rise on its own. It crossed the distance to Bludvist airborne, and bore down upon him, roaring as darkest frightful death and betrayal. He swiped at it with his weapon, and it crashed to the deck as its absent tail-fin hindered it. It twisted up and away and chased its tail and one of its great paws punctured the deck as it writhed possessed again. Its back was turned and Bludvist charged. 

 

But it smelt him coming, and whirled around with a wing and knocked him abroad again. The crew stayed well out of the way. 

 

Bludvist spat at it, even sprawled so on the deck. He stood, thunder-clouds in the cold unsettled waves, and furious volcanoes in the bleak-black sky with world's end approaching.

 

"You foul worm! Maggot, I will crush you! You bow to  _me,_ remember, you worthless reptile! I am your master, have always been! I won you, clean and legal, and you  _are mine!_ You belong to no-one else; not yourself, not your past, not to your kind! I own you! You are but a  _possession!_ And I will  _destroy_ you, if you will not learn this! You have been testy for long enough, you filth! " 

 

The  _Nattfasa_ replied with a caterwaul-roar that chilled blood and bone. It spat fire at him. 

 

Bludvist barely had time to hunker behind his hide. But he remained alive. It shot again, and again, and each time he survived. He swiped at it again with the polearm, slapping it across the neck, and plunging the point into a whistling wing that attempted to smite him. The animal's sounds of pain and rage were horrid.  

 

The  _Nattfasa_ was breathing harshly. It would not let up, but it had been ill, and its legs quaked. Bludvist was laughing mad, and he seized new weapons from all around, from every limp hand.

 

Bludvist got a thrust in at its head, and almost sliced open its right eye. A line of blood from its jaw to its mighty crown would become yet another of its scars. 

 

The air sounded: swipes and thrusts and claws and dust and blood and rust and horror and battle-lust and hurt, and rage, and howling sounds as the ship rocked under their weight as they battled dominance and for freedom lost. Loss. Hot fire and cold wrongs. Grief interred and hatred unearthed. Love. If such even was possible. 

 

The Alpha could not subdue it. It would not bow to Drago Bludvist. There was a wild animal on their ship, a wild dragon bent on murder, such as they had all known from long in their childhoods. It was a fight to the death.

 

It was bent on murder, but it was not slaughter. It was revenge. And that every man there could understand.

 

Isa understood. He was young, but he understood. 

 

It was not fair.

 

The Fearful Night bled everywhere. It was howling. Its blood was red.

 

Between breaths, as the two raging challengers came within distance of claws and blade again, Isa sprung forward. He had a bag of tranquilizing darts, it was standard when one worked with such creatures. He planted his feet and aimed and whistled four darts into the poor thing's hide. 

 

It tottered.

 

And it blinked at him. Its pupils were wide across now as his hand. It bleated, sad and hollow. 

 

And it slumped down then, and to the deck, and was still. 

 

And Isa felt suddenly horrible. 

 

The pole cleaver was still tight in the General's hand. 

 

All eyes were upon the General, all but Ansprand's. He was staring at Isa, the idiot child.

 

Bludvist turned. 

 

"What did you think you were doing?" he growled down. He glared through slitted eyes at the youth, having never noted him before. Isa held his ground, though his joints were overripe and wobbly. 

 

"I -- it was going to kill you, sir." 

 

_"_ You think so?" The General whispered, gruff and heavy as a wild boar, and stalked forward. He was almost twice Isa's height, and thrice his width. Isa could not keep his voice from squeaking. 

 

"Yes, sir! It's a  _Nattfasa,_ it's very deadly...?"

 

_"_ You think it would best ME?" 

 

"Um."

 

"You think it is your place to INTERCEDE?"

 

Ansprand took a step forward. "General --”

 

"YOU LITTLE DEMON! SHIT-CHILD, RAT-SPAWN, YOU ONLY ANSWER TO  _ME_!" 

 

"Sir! Isa --”

 

"I'm sorry, sir, I thought --"

 

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THOUGHT!" Bludvist seized then Isa by the throat, lifted him from the deck. The pole cleaver clattered down. "This is for ALL of you to see, you worms!" 

 

"GENERAL!" Ansprand ran forward.

 

"Swine! I will teach you  _all_ to disobey me!" 

 

"Leave Isa be! I confess to ignoring your orders, I had the  _Nattfasa_ tended to --"

 

"I don't fucking care. You, child, are  _expendable._ So you get to suffer for your insolence."

 

"NO! LET HIM GO!"

 

Isa could say naught for the terror. But he regretted naught, either.

 

It had all come asunder so fast.

 

He was thrown to the deck, and one of Bludvist's thick feet pressed upon his chest. As he was pinned, he watched his General remove a curved knife with a cruel cutting edge from his girdle. Isa hoped he was not crying as he lay there.

 

His commander had been fierce in the face of this man. The Night Fearhad fought him. Isa was going to face fate bravely. 

 

The blade pierced his eye-socket and he screamed. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, some notes:
> 
> Just... forget about historical accuracy aha. Pretend there's no such thing. It's the HTTYD universe, Hiccup had a dragon and a goddamned lightsaber; history has no business being here. So forgive me for doing things like using kind-of-anachronistic words like sarissa/pole cleaver/principale/oubliette and talking about The Devil when the Devil wasn't quite as big a deal in Christianity as we think it is until a few centuries after this or having to grapple with the ship being one of the huge aircraft carrier things in the movie and not like... a ship that would have actually been used in the 900s. Also forget I said that I picked the 900s for this as well. This is just a mess of Wikpediaing and half-remembering from history lectures and willy-nilly throwing random things in for flavour. Shhhh. There's a lightsaber in this universe. Shhh.
> 
> Also on the note of me doing bizarre things that are weird and inaccurate, Nattfasa/Nattfasor (plural) is not actually Old Norse, it's Swedish. It's the term the Swedish dub of HTTYD uses; I did this because I was uncomfortable translating using like some website that claims to translate to Old Norse when I don't know any myself, whereas I can at least understand enough Swedish to understand the dub alright. And nattfasa it actually doesn't translate to 'night fury', it translates more to 'night terror/fright/fear/thing that inspires fear'. So 'Night Fear' isn't actually a mistranslation into Latin at all. But let's pretend that it is. Why do I make things so complicated for myself...
> 
> OH ALSO I TOTALLY FORGOT the wonderful wonderful wonderful divine axonmanage drew [ this amazing FANART ](http://axonmanage.tumblr.com/post/99084050731/fanart-for-sigtryggrs-fanfic-thy-two-eyes-like) for the fic!!! Holy shit!!! It's so gorgeous and horrible and I love it. THANK YOU SO MUCH AXONMANAGE/ANDREA!!!!!


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

_He is thrown._

 

_Plummeting up into the dark, borne by screeching winds into vast infinitesimal everything and nothing. There is him, and there is nothing. He is everything that ever was, and he is no more._

 

_He claws for purchase. But there is nothing to hold._

 

_What terror!_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He has no control, and he is master of everything. All that there is, is him._

 

_Clustered deep and broad sit shining things like impossibility. Things that cannot be. Things that cannot have been. But will. How?_

 

_Blood and rot. Flowers and weeds on the hillside, blown sweet by wings like kisses. Lovely red on the white snow. Light to behold, wet drops and the curve of a closed mouth and joy in the sounds of air and screaming. Life, and emptiness._

 

_That is not light in his eyes. There is nothing. The boxed-up cosmos implodes upon him. How is he touching so many things? How have so many things like light come to be around him? They should have known better. He is only darkness._

 

_He is only death. The only death._

 

_He blinks._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Dawn comes._

 

_He and his brother. Nestled nice and comfort-easy around each other, in places near and far from home. Father calling for them both. The spring everlasting, of always having another day._

 

_He and his brother. His ears are ringing._  His ears were bleeding _._

 

_He and his brother._

 

_He loves his brother. Still._

 

_Their father running for them both. Their father weeping._

 

_Their father should not be weeping._

 

_His father should not be weeping._

 

_His father, and his only son._

 

_Only one._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The sun sets._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_His mother kisses his forehead, now new-cleaned and cool as lavender and light down. She wishes him good-night, and pleasant dreams. The cradle rocks beneath, taking in hints of water. She has forgotten all her lullabies, she tells him, words thick and wilted-soft. She brushes his fringe neat with her finger-tips, tucks errant wisps behind his ears. He does not mind it._

 

_His father fixes his paws across his breast, bending fingers -- stiff now as twigs in frost -- to hold a hilt close there. Untangles his prosthetic from his boot's cross-garter, or tries to at best. His head rolls to the side with the tugging, and his father does not breathe._   _But after a minute, no new breaths have filled the silence, and his father adjusts his head again, big hands holding his cheeks a moment too long, or twenty. Hot rain touches his face just as gently. He does not feel it._

 

_His father puts him to bed. But he is already sleeping._

 

_His dreams are not sweet._

 

_All that is left of him resides in them. And his dreams are not sweet._

 

_He is lit aflame. He does not know it._

 

_It is dusk. And then, it is darkness._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_But he still smoulders, deep-set there. He is fire in the void._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He._

_And nothing._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He.

And  _him._

_His eyes open!_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Smoke curls, and all is pitch. But he is still here. A lost gust bleats hollow. He is not so easy-gone, any more. There are still embers left._

_Dragon-fire. And the past. His charcoal is frozen in the deep. He knows so._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He is the only death. That much, at least, he has left._ _He laughs. It is a chilling sound, to transfigure blood to stone._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He appreciates beauty. He smiles at them. He remembers snatches, stale joy in his mouth. He understands himself. He loved once, too._

 

_He might love, even now. Love and hate are two edges of one blade, after all._

 

_He loves so ardently, it might kill him._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He loved so ardently, it had killed him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He falls out of the air. There is nothing to catch him._

 

_But he is beyond fear._ There was still love waiting for him. 

 

_Oh, and he will return it, in full._

 

He would take that love like the star-shine gift it was. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_And he will take his hate out upon the one who had killed him._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The first thing he felt upon waking was humiliation._

 

"Well, that worked out well, didn’t it? I guess I failed on my end; but you ought to have just let Drago kill that man, you know. You knew it wasn’t working. Instead you got everyone all excited by fighting him!”

 

_The second was resignation._

 

"Oh, come on, bud. Don't think like that; we'll get back at him. We'll get Drago _._ We just need to stick to the plan next time, okay? _"_

_The third was relief._

"Now, wait just a minute! You weren't  _afraid_  back there, were you? What in all the nine realms do you have to be _afraid_  of?" 

 

_Nothing, he conceded. Not with his Hiccup here with him._

 

"Attaboy, that's it. I'm here for you. And we'll have our revenge, too, and I will rest."

 

_The last thing he felt before dozing was the dirt on his claws, and the scaulding scaulded love within him._  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Time leaked by in thin drops. They had treated his wounds. The air was getting colder still._

_Only the old ones sat guard above; he could not smell the little one there. Hiccup did not like him. But Toothless had not made a habit of killing human children._

 

_No-one had replaced the straw for some time. Hiccup could not smell it. If it did not bother him, it ought not to vex Toothless. But Toothless could not eat with his filth clinging so in his nostrils._

_Finally, he roared up at the useless humans there. Hiccup told him to be quiet – who knew what mischief they planned?  But when the guards peeked down at him, he motioned anyway to the sty he languished in, pointing with a free claw at his own stool, because humans understood paw-gestures. They nodded slowly, and spoke among themselves._

_In a short span of time two of them came down to replace his makeshift litter. Hiccup grumbled in a corner, and their forks scraped through him. Toothless made a point of sitting patient as they worked. Eventually, they stopped watching him over their shoulders as they moved about. He warbled in appreciation for his fresh bedding, head high. He felt like a Night Fury for the first time in a great while._

 

“Look what they’ve made you stoop to; you’re better than this. You’re a  _Night Fury,_  for Baldr’s sake!”

 

_Toothless paused._

“Did I do this? Did I make you tame? You won’t even growl at them any more.”

 

_Had he? Was… was that so horrible?_

 

“The other dragons know our plan now. We need to play it safe, not stir up any more suspicion, until Drago returns. They’re counting on us to help them out. But we’ll need the entire nest, and our strength, if we’re going to take him on again.”

 

_Yes, yes –_

“If we get the chance, we’ll need to take out their handlers. If we free the dragons on our side their handlers will notice and stop them.”

 

_... But Toothless had not made a habit of killing humans..._ _(except, of course, for all those he'd killed anyway, habits notwithstanding)._

 

“I’m sorry, bud. But we’re preparing for war, here.”

 

_A memory: hot light streaming a sheet into the hangar. The smell of Berk. He supposed, no matter what blood they spilt here, Bludvist had spilt more._  

 

_The smell of Berk and blood intermingled. For the thousandth time: he was so sorry._

_The new straw did not smell as pleasant as a moment before._

_  
  
_

 

 

 

_Strange sounds above. Metal moving, scraping. It made his teeth taste sharper._

_Someone's voice. The old one, whom he had not killed? He was their chief, it seemed; shouting with authority, purpose. Stoick-father standing on a metal mountain. He whimpered._

_Many movements like feet and metal groaning. Metal was so loud!_

_Toothless sniffed the air. Something was different. Someone had changed the sea._

"What's the matter, bud?"

_So many human and leather smells! Scents like evil, but never so. Toothless knew humans better. These did not reek of Berk's nettled trees, but humans smelled the same everywhere._

_Tasted the same too, he supposed, but he didn't care. He would not even eat Bludvist's flesh. It would be poison anyhow._

_A dim shadow fell across him._

"Oh no; what do they want now? Get away from him, you Southern shitheads! Don't touch him!"

 

_Twenty or more gathered above. They did not hear Hiccup, of course. Their metal pointed at him._

_The hatch opened._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty short update this time around, for Halloween! You guys have all been complete sweethearts and I wanted to give you a little something spooky. It probably just doesn't make any sense, though. Ack, sorry. Maybe it'll make sense later on? Aha no. 
> 
> Once again, [wonderful Thy Two Eyes fanart by axonmanage](http://axonmanage.tumblr.com/post/101210368546/soooo-this-is-the-disaster-i-was-angry-about)!! This time it's a completely freaky night scene! Complete with tons of blood yup yup. She spoils me.  
> SPEAKING OF axonmanage I told her I had implicated her somehow in this chapter, and I did! The detail about the prosthetic being caught in the cross-garter I just straight-up stole from this [ awful thing](http://axonmanage.tumblr.com/post/98839106456/good-artists-under-the-control-of-bad-fans-do-bad) she drew a while ago. Aha! If I'm going to write this tragic abomination I'm taking y'all with me! I'm sorry, Andrea. No I'm not.
> 
> Until next chapter, everyone! Thank you so much for reading this train-wreck thus far!


End file.
